The postman fails to deliver a single birthday card

I’m writing this on my birthday. I haven’t had a text from David, though he knows it is my Special Day as last night he referred to it being my Birthday Eve. It is midday, and still no word from him. He is with a friend in France, but he could still phone and order me flowers. As long as they are roses, with no spiky green foliage, which is bad feng shui. And not lilies, as they kill cats. As long as they come ready in a proper vase. I’m too tired to find a vase and snip off stems.

It turns out he did try to buy the pink Valentino dress, after all. He forwarded an email from MyTheresa to Nic, which stated the dress was damaged and therefore couldn’t be sold. ‘But don’t worry,’ he wrote. ‘I have bought Liz something she needs.’

‘Something she needs.’ Hmmm. What do I need? Let me think. A house? My new vet bill (up again to £1,400) settling? A pension? My head examining?

Yesterday was a nightmare. Lots of problems with work. And to cap it all I received a letter in the post telling me my (exhaustive, with photographs) application to rent a (cheaper but much more practical) house in South Devon near the coast had been turned down. I had spent three days (and a huge sum) viewing the place and had got my hopes up. I should have learned by now never to get my hopes up.

Ooh, the postman has just arrived. Not a single sodding card. It is 12.24pm and still no word from David.

Still no word.

Still no word.

12.29. Just got this in an email from David. ‘Firstly, Happy Birthday. X’

And that was it – as part of a group email about something else.

Anyway, it is now 5.30pm and not a peep more. I wouldn’t mind, as I am not 12 years old, but he makes such a fuss about his birthday. A day turned into a birthday weekend and then a birthday week! I took him to The River Cafe for lunch and we spent a night in a Large Room at The Hospital Club in Covent Garden, plus breakfast! I don’t even have anything in for dinner as I thought someone might invite me for a meal or bring a curry round.

It’s not been my best day. I am just back from taking Susie to the vet with a sore mouth (so that figure of £1,400 has shot up again) with some Tesco shopping. I put the bag down in the kitchen and Minstrel wee-ed in the carrier bag! I then discovered that, despite being a bag for life, it has a hole.

Today is up there with my birthday last year, when I got a text from my sister telling me my bank was going to repossess the cottage in Dulverton in two weeks’ time, due to my impending bankruptcy (the house is in my name as I had by that date paid the mortgage for five years). I still had to go out for dinner with David a year ago, not telling him about the shock of the text. I’d strived to protect the cottage, to save my sister’s home. I could have moved into it as you are allowed one home when you are made bankrupt, but I didn’t. A year later, to the day, I email the bank to find out what on earth is going on, given I’ve spent another 12 months unable to pay the mortgage, which has increased my debt with arrears, fines, interest and sheer bloody stress. I have just received this by return.

‘You should have a Trustee in Bankruptcy who you can contact in respect of your assets. You need to contact them directly with your questions.’

What is she, a robot?

I want something nice in my life, but it is problem, problem, problem. It can’t be normal, can it, to live with this level of stress? Of people being cryptic and unhelpful and ungenerous and just plain mean. I keep watching the Whitney Houston documentary on the BBC iPlayer, just because at least I can see there is someone in the world worse off than me.

18.07. I’ve just seen a bouquet of flowers has been left in my porch. Roses, tied with raffia, wrapped in cellophane. Just perfect. I open the little brown envelope, my hands shaking. The message reads, ‘Happy Birthday. Much love, Isobel.’